


now get ready, do more than survive

by fillertexted



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Post-Squip, Summertime Sadness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-14 06:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11202252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillertexted/pseuds/fillertexted
Summary: It's been months, so many months it's pretty dizzying to realize just how many have gone by with no retribution, no real reaction, so why is it only now that it's hitting and hurting him? Why can't he just be fine again?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thereve been surprisingly few fics abt the emotional trauma the squip caused
> 
> i mean i havent really read too many fics from this fandom (i legit just started bc i heard abt the vore ones and i gotta say well written but What the Fuck) but from the ones i have its just kinda glanced over for the boyf riends (is that the ship name?? i feel so out of the loop) and i like writing angst so here is my attempt at forcing my fucked memory to recount my own personal drama so this is as realistic as possible
> 
> anyways a lot of bad mental shit happens this chapter, so if youre bothered by heavy descriptions of depression & anxiety & self loathing maybe pass on this bad fic

Objectively, his ceiling isn’t interesting. It’s not textured, just a basic off-white that seems to be typical of any self-respecting homeowner’s ceiling. There’s a smattering of glow-in-the-dark stars from when he and Michael thought astrology was the shit and attempted to recreate some constellations, but it turned out imitating Michelangelo wasn’t the best idea for their necks or their attention spans. The Big and Little Dipper, along with a half done Draco, reside on his ceiling, feebly glowing in the low light. A big smear of charcoal is just left of the Little Dipper, thanks to Michael trying to flip one of his charcoal sticks, accidentally launching it. There’s twin oil marks from those sticky hands that were all the rage several years ago, when he and Michael wanted to see if it was true that they’d stay stuck there forever.

He turns away from the ceiling. Thinking about Michael hurts, now. It sucks.

He drags his unwilling body upwards, everything fighting him. He feels like stone; heavy and dull, limbs weighted and slow. He rubs his fists into his eyes, making lights explode behind his eyelids. He feels impossibly young, and impossibly old. Everything was effort, now. He sighs for good measure before he heaves himself up and towards the window, vaguely recalling a post on how cool air and the sound of passing cars could help relive the crushing sense of despair that seemed to coat Jeremy now. He needed all the help he could get, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

The window sticks in the frame, the wood having expanded in the heat and unwilling to budge. Inexplicably, something so small immediately makes his mood drop, and he feels near the edge of tears, eyes hot and stinging. He is grateful the SQUIP decides to stay silent, but he can feel its smugness, feel it radiating all throughout his head, and he just can’t deal anymore.

One painful step after the other, he stumbles over to the mini fridge full of Mountain Dew Red, desperately needing for his head to be his own for a moment, just enough to take a deep breath and only hear his own irritating voice. Yanking it open so roughly a couple bottles tumble out of the overstocked fridge, he picks one up, fighting with the cap and having the hard plastic dig into his frantic hands as he twists. He finally gets it off, and flings it somewhere away from him. He guzzles down the overly sweet fake cherry soda, some running down his chin in rivulets in his desperation. He drinks until he can’t feel the artificial smugness, nor the omnipresent feeling of someone watching his every move. Gasping for air, he shoves the other fallen bottles back in and shuts the fridge before leaning against it, completely drained.

His head feels empty, now. Though the edge of panic digs in deep, and he’s so exhausted he wants to drop and sleep for nine years, the sense of being totally alone exhilarates and terrifies him. It just reminds him of what he wants to do, was thinking about all night. He doesn’t want to think about anything anymore. He wishes he could just act and feel like he had not even a month before, but without the steady stream of endless busy work and interactions with friends, he felt the same falling sensation in his stomach as you get when you miss a step; stomach swooping, the breathless anticipation of hitting the ground. Without something to distract his mind enough to ignore the fact that he had been falling, nothing can hide the fact that he’d been falling, and he’d been falling _fast_.

He knows, okay, he _knows_ that at this point his relationship with Christine is now harming him. He feels anxious texting her, hanging out with her, and even just thinking about her fills him with a weird mix of happiness and dread and guilt. He knows that Christine wants to talk about it; he keeps seeing her in the corner of his eye open and close her mouth as an expression of bemusement spreads across her face, only for her to close her mouth and shake her head. He may be stupid, but he’s not totally dense. He’s just a coward.

It’s not fair to either of them that he just wants to stay in this relationship simply because he gets some weird comfort out of actually being _in_ a relationship. He feels more normal in a relationship, like he’s an actual person with an actual personality as long as he’s dating someone so much more amazing, who’s better at being a person than he is. He can actually wake up in the morning and immediately have something to look forward to, to be able to text someone without second guessing himself because it’s too early or the text is too weird to be something casually sent. (He ignores that he already had that before. He fucked it up and he needs to forget about it.) But it’s not _okay_ that he’s doing this. He can’t keep leaning on someone just hoping they’re strong enough to support them both.

Pulling out his phone from his pocket, he unlocks it, bringing up his messages. He rereads the text he has painstaking written over the course of an hour, feeling the panic cutting into him more intensely. Shaky hands finally hit the send button he’s been agonizing over for the past three hours, and he’s immediately locking his phone and dropping it on the floor again after it’s sent. He draws his knees up to his chest and hugs them closer, leaning back against the cool fridge, keeping his brain as deliberately blank as possible.

If you stare at the ceiling, you can envision your head to be just as plain and textureless, just as boring and routine. (Except his isn’t and it brings up memories he doesn’t want to think about and he really just wants to change his name and move to Ecuador, except that also reminds him of Michael and he just really, really does not want to think of anyone connected to his personal life.)

A persistent buzzing draws him out of his not-thinking, and panic immediately washes over him again. He glances at the screen, and feels his insides buckle in shame when he sees it’s Christine. Perfect, amazing Christine, who is probably pissed Jeremy tried to break up with her over text like any other white fuckboy. Jeremy, who couldn’t handle the pure sunshine that is Christine. Jeremy, who stains every other person he interacts with. Jeremy, who Christine is calling to yell at, probably. He lets it ring. The call ends. There is momentary stillness, before his phone begins vibrating again.

This time, he picks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i really dislike reading a wip that never gets updated so like this Will be updated but i am more into consuming content for this fandom than i am creating it so if it takes 2 months for the next chapter feel free to yell at me i get that feeling
> 
> also i just saw this relationship tag 'jeremy heere/kermit the frog' who wrote that & do you want to be friends
> 
> want to yell at me or just scream abt something that i will creatively reply to with '!!! this!!!'? hmu on my tumblr: [fillertexted](http://fillertexted.tumblr.com) this is mostly hamilton but i do reblog some bmc things so yknow


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why yes, i do take way too long to update, and when i do its extremely short, but since im avoiding summer school i might be motivated to write more chapters 
> 
> disassociation, suicide idealization, kinda sorta self harm, and other shit mental health issues happen in the chapter, if any of those bother u dont read
> 
> anyways raise ur hand if ur venting abt things that happened over a year ago through fic, ive got both hands and a leg in the air

It was, perhaps, the quietest end of the world ever.

The sound of the line being disconnected is just three quick beeps, and he let his heavy arm drop back down so he can stare at the ‘call ended’ screen. It felt like his body was made of TV static, loud and colorful in a chaotic way, a glitching incorporeal form. He was overreacting. He _knew_ he was; he shouldn’t be feeling like he was just smoke and mirrors in response to the conversation he just had, it was just so _dumb_. It’s _what he wanted_. Christine hadn’t even raised her voice, was amused and _relieved_ , even, just called because, _“Jeremy Heere, you did_ not _try to break up with me over text, you aren’t_ that _cliché.”_

Yet here he was, body stiff and numb hands shaking as he huddles pathetically against the mini fridge that holds his only shot at normalcy, clutching his phone too tightly.

He feels all too fake, and all too real. He’s floating above his pathetic form, but he’s also hyperaware of his heartbeat, his shaking, the way each stuttered breath shifts his clothes against his skin in a way that’s just toeing the line of being uncomfortable. He _loathes_ it. He loathes _himself_. What he wouldn’t give for a little courage, to just take the plunge into the unknown, so he could finally be free.

Jeremy’s still the biggest coward he knows, though, so he moves away from his morbid daydreams and back into the present. He’s still in that weird state of disconnect and hyperawareness, but with each shaking breath, he becomes more and more numb. He’s glad; he doesn’t think he could handle any more emotions. He welcomes the thick blanket of nothingness.

It’s weird to be completely numb. He can’t really feel anything, emotionally or physically. Looking at his phone doesn’t make him feel a thing; it’s just a phone. He just broke up with Christine; the thought doesn’t fill him with heartbreak or relief or guilt. He’s just numb. His emotions are so far away, like he’s looking through the wrong end of binoculars, and they’re minuscule, unimportant.

He harshly runs his nails down his arm, and feels nothing as red blooms.

He does it again. And again. And _again_. He harshly digs his nails in, sometimes just dragging down, other times twisting the skin and flesh beneath his fingers, and other times still just pressing down as hard as he can, splitting the skin and leaving blood filled crescent moons in their wake. The longer he goes on, the clearer he can feel the pinpricks of pain shooting up his arm, but he doesn’t care. He _deserves_ this, and it makes him feel better.

He stops when his left arm is a bright red mess, blood pooled and making lines down his arm, trails and odd star patterned pinkish red marks covering the thin skin. There’s a fire raging along his arm, drowning out the numbness that’s still there and replacing it with pain. His thoughts feel sharp, now, and he’s tethered to his body. A deep breath, and he’s forcing his shaking legs under him, wobbling worse than Bambi as he plucks a cardigan off the laundry chair, hastily shoving it on the hide his arm, just in case his dad is near the hallway. Since it’s not all that late, he’s most likely watching TV, though, so it’s just extra precaution.

Jeremy pads slowly but steadily towards the bathroom, trying to not think about the blood potentially staining his sleeve. He can hear the theme song from Wheel of Fortune coming from downstairs, and he relaxes minutely, softly shutting and locking the bathroom door. He flicks the light on, cringing from how bright it was. He hadn’t realized how dim his room was, but in the florescent lights, he’s blinded.

Rubbing his eyes quickly, he gets the now frequently used first-aid kit out from under the sink, setting it to the side as he rolls up his sleeve to give his arm a rinse. It’s worse than he thought it was; the light hiding nothing. Reds and pinks merge together, and a deep purple leaks out from under a couple of star marks. He hadn’t realized he had twisted hard enough to bruise.

He didn’t dawdle in the face of his injuries, though. A rough and painful scrubbing of his arm with cold water make the barely formed scabs reopen, but he just kept rinsing the blood down the drain, the bright red looking like watercolor or ink suspended in the clear liquid.

Once his arm was only slightly burning, he patted it dry with one of the copious hand towels. He unzipped the first-aid kit, hands automatically gathering the Neosporin and Band-Aids, habit formed from doing it nearly every week. It stung, but he would rather a brief pain over possible infection, and then attempting to explain to his dad why he had to go to the hospital, and why there were countless marks on his skin.

He glances up at the mirror. The beginnings of under eye bags, unconscious frown, and deep set exhaustion paints his face, and he just stares. Disgust wells up within him, but he keeps staring, eyes flicking to and from particularly heinous spots. New pimples on his face, messy hair that’s past the point of looking artfully disheveled, too long eyelashes, blotchy skin, anything and everything he can find a fault in he does, bile pressing against his throat as he stares and stares at himself, wondering if he stared long enough he would magically change.

He’s never been lucky, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive been reading more bmc fics and the amount of people who write sui fics who r obvs Not suicidal or never been suicidal is so prevalent like?? they just use it as angst points to make a story more sad but like. wheres the build up. u dont go from completely happy and then getting dipped by a friend one day makes u go 'well time 2 die' like bruh pls
> 
> i also see the hypocrisy in my previous statement as i am also using this as angst points but also this fic is going to be the first and last time i ever write abt the shit i thought and did bc i was So Fuckin Sad for Years and if i dont post it ill never finish it and just delete it so. yeah. self insert fic whom
> 
> hmu on my tumblr:[fillertexted](http://fillertexted.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was starting a painting & when i decided to use time square as a reference pic for the buildings i immediately Died so now im writing until i feel like dealing w angles
> 
> fun fact rubbing alcohol dissolves acrylic paint so ive been rubbing my paint cloth back and forth on an uneven canvas for like 10 mins. i love art it is my passion 
> 
> anyways tho: self harm is described, lbr a majority of this chapter is that sweet sweet Depression Not Nap, and just general self loathing. yknow, the usual. the usu. uze? i just googled it & there are too many so lets go with uzh

He isn’t sure how long he stands in the bathroom criticizing his appearance, but it’s long enough that he hears Wheel of Fortune draw to a close, the theme obnoxious enough to clue him in to the fact that it’s an older episode. He looks towards the towel hanging on the door, as though that would help alleviate his fears of being found out, that if he could just see into the hallway he’d be safe. It takes a minute, but he hears his father’s slow walk up the stairs, steps heavy both by nature and exhaustion. When he passes through the hallway, Jeremy breathes out an inaudible sigh of relief when his steps don’t slow. He hears the quiet click of a door, and Jeremy drags his attention back to his arm.

The areas where he drew blood are covered by Pac-Man Band-Aids, a gift courtesy of Michael. Who he doesn’t want to think about. Like, he would rather throw himself out the window than think of Michael. He would drink every type of milk he could get his hands on. He would even go as far as eating pineapple pizza. It also happens to be Michael’s favorite, so maybe something like anchovy pizza. Or, like, olives. Anchovy and olive pizza. Michael would probably try to argue with him that anchovy and olive pizza is good, though, just because he likes to razz his friend, and he’d probably giggle, the sound an intoxicating noise of pure bubbly happiness, and now Jeremy is thinking about Michael despite trying to not think about him. Again. Trying to not think about Michael just makes it worse, so he slaps his cheeks a little, takes a deep breath, and tries to make his head blank.

He yanks the sleeve down, making it cover most of his hand as he repacks the first-aid kit and throws away the Band-Aid wrappers. A perfunctory scan over the sink and counter to make sure he didn’t drip excess blood onto them, and he pulls down the sleeve of his cardigan again, fisting the material so it doesn’t shift. He unlocks and opens the bathroom door, flicking off the light as he does so. A glance to make sure his dad’s door is closed, and he’s shuffling back to his room, suddenly exhausted.

That’s a lie, though. He’s always exhausted. Currently, he’s exhausted with a hint of satisfaction and an overpowering sense of guilt. It’s a yawning chasm, dark and seemingly bottomless, just another way he’s disappointed someone, even if they don’t know it yet.

 

 

-0-

 

 

He’s staring at his ceiling again. The ceiling is just as blank and boring as always (as long as you look past the spots bearing memories that make his chest ache, the spots that are undeniable proof he wasn’t always a toxic, horrible person, incapable of love or sympathy) but he doesn’t really think he’s going to look away any time soon. He lets his eyes unfocus (and now the spots are blurred, and he doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse) because, objectively, the ceiling continues to be just as blank and boring as the last time he stared at it. It was less than a day ago; it’s not really something you forget.

He feels heavy. His arm throbs in time with his heart. He wants to tear it open again, just to have some kind of direction, some type of motivation to bully his head into expending the effort of _doing something_ , instead of this pathetic pity party. He’s taking up space, time, money, _love_ , and he isn’t doing anything with it. He doesn’t want to be selfish like that anymore, but he can’t move. His whole body refuses to listen to his brain when he tells it to _move_ , not even twitching in halfhearted compliance. It makes his mood drop, the heaviness mixing with the misery that’s clouding his head, and now he’s definitely not going to be moving anytime soon.  

There’s a twinge of smugness in the back of his mind, a phantom pain shooting up his spine, but he doesn’t even shift. For now, he can ignore the SQUIP’s weak presence. It won’t become powerful enough to actually communicate beyond hints of emotions for a few days more, and he doesn’t really see himself moving in the near future. Besides, he agrees with what the SQUIP says. Might as well get validation for his feelings every once in a while.

 

-0-

 

 

He’s been laying there, eyes unfocused, for what feels like centuries, but is probably closer to a few hours. His room has gotten darker, and he can hear a steady buzz coming from the floor, his phone. It’s been buzzing intermittently with what he assumes were texts, but now he can tell someone’s calling him, and he knows he needs to get up, but he doesn’t quite possess the willpower for that currently. He could ignore the calls and sink further into his misery, but he doesn’t want to do that to his friends, completely ignore them because he can’t be a human being for five minutes.

His phone is still buzzing. He needs to answer it so he doesn’t worry his friends, which would make him feel even more guilty, which would lead to withdrawing more, and then his friends would take to visiting him in person all the time, which would be draining and would probably cause him to accidentally flash his scars and scratches and cuts and that would _definitely_ make his friends freak and force him to talk to someone and then he would, he would—

His phone has stopped buzzing. It’s quiet for a few moments before it begins to buzz again, and Jeremy knows he has to answer it.

He’s so heavy.

He quite literally rolls out of bed, lying on the ground for a moment, the faint feeling of disgust and reluctant amusement following him. The thought of his friends worrying over a waste of space like him makes him rise to his elbows, catching sight of his lit up phone before it goes dark again. He slowly knee-walks over, picking up the phone right as it lights up again.

When he sees that it’s _him_ , he feels slightly nauseous. He takes a second to breathe, as though he actually bothered to learn breathing techniques to just _chill_ (and _God_ , did he wish that was a word he would never hear again, to never think of again) and looks away from the screen when he swipes to answer. His hands are trembling, which is pretty pathetic.

“Jeremy! Dude, I thought you were never going to answer! You doin’ okay?”

No. “Yes.” His voice is rough.

Michael’s voice becomes just a touch softer, a little quieter. “Oh, did I wake you up? Sorry, man, I just wanted to know if you got our texts… which obviously you hadn’t.”

He knows when to take an excuse when handed one. “Yeah, sorry, your call actually woke me up.”

“At three?” Michael sounds a little puzzled, and a lot disbelieving, “Dude, in all the years that we’ve been friends, I’ve _never_ heard you wake up at three. You sure you’re okay?”

No _._ “ _Yes_.”

“Okay,” he says, drawing out the sound, the epitome of disbelief, “Well, anyway, we're is planning on going to the beach this weekend, since everyone’s finally going to be home again right before a few more vacations. You in?” Jeremy can tell Michael is only dropping it for the time being.

He gazes at his wrist, plastered in bandages he knows his friend never imagined they’d be used for, and he kind of regrets using for something so stupid. Like, really? He’s so pathetic and worthless he had to harm himself just so he could feel something, and then used a gift from the most amazing person alive as what, some sort of subconscious need for comfort from someone he can’t even _think_ about anymore without panicking?

It’s abhorrent.

“Jeremy? Are you falling asleep on me?” His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge of worry under the static.

Jeremy could spill, he could just say any one thing he’s thinking about, and he knows Michael would be over in a heartbeat to help, to comfort and guide. He could cry in the embrace of the best person he knows, without shame or retribution. He could get advice, he could listen to his voice as he tries to center himself again, he could sit there and let Michael blindly soothe his hurts. He wants, no, _craves_ it.

“No, sorry, I’m good. And I’m going to pass on the beach thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any other pineapple pizza lovers out there? its my absolute favorite. if youre a hater you cant read my fic sorry i dont make the rules
> 
> would you believe me if i told you i didnt actually mean to make this so sad? but its Me and my natural state is sad so here we are
> 
> hmu on my tumblr: [fillertexted](http://fillertexted.tumblr.com)


End file.
